27. Jayson
JAYSON
T iming. Timing is everything. It’s all about the timing—me meeting Keira, the impossible collision of her life with mine, and the vicious, cosmic joke of the circumstances. The irony.
The job should’ve been a straight line: in, bullet, out. Clockwork.
The mayor was just another stain. A necessary removal.
But the universe—destiny, fate, whatever—likes to experiment with cruelty. That night, it decided to throw a curveball the exact second my crosshairs settled on the mayor.
Keira Bishop walked through the door.
Wrong place, wrong heartbeat, wrong second on the clock. And suddenly the line was no longer straight. It looped, tangled, dragged me with it. The echo hadn’t died before I knew two things with certain clarity: she saw my face, and I couldn’t pull the trigger a second time.
Keira’s eyes were wide enough to hold the whole horror movie. No scream. Just that silent, glass-shard inhale, like the world had stolen all her air, and destiny had punched her in the throat .
It all came down to timing again.
If she’d arrived five minutes earlier, she’d have found her father sleeping, and I may not have stepped into that room.
Five minutes later? A silent house and a cooling corpse.
Instead, she stepped in at the exact microsecond that split the two versions of reality—the second that forged a new history neither of us saw coming.
She backed up, knees trembling, mouth shaping a plea she never got to voice.
I crossed the room, gun raised, adrenaline roaring so loud it drowned out any thought.
I don’t even remember lowering my weapon.
I remember her pulse under my glove when I grabbed her wrist—too fast, too tight—and the involuntary flinch that stabbed straight through my ribs.
She fought back when I reached her, and tried to run as I lead her out the back, through the manicured rose garden that signified money and power.
My window for escape was measured in heartbeats, and I couldn’t afford to waste time as I bundled her into the waiting car.
Ghost was behind the wheel, scowling. He doesn’t like baggage. I didn’t have time for his judgment.
We peeled away, tires whispering on wet asphalt, her eyes locked on mine, full of questions I didn’t have answers to. The irony tasted like copper on my tongue: I just blew up her life, only to save it.
Hours later, I sat in the dim glow of my grandmother’s kitchen. The house that should have felt like home didn’t; it was a mausoleum of memories I couldn’t exhume. Keira was downstairs, locked in the single cell in the basement.
Nina slid a mug across the table. Coffee, black and scorched. “You going to tell me why there’s a stranger in my basement?”
“Because timing’s a bitch,” I muttered. It was the only explanation I would give her.
“Guilt looks heavy on you, son,” she said softly .
“Fate feels heavier on her.” I didn’t choose the timing. That cosmic thing chose me. “Maybe this is the universe balancing its books,” I said. “Took my sister, gave me?—”
“Careful,” Nina warned, and I bit off the rest of my words. Because I was about to call Keira redemption, and that’s a weight no girl deserved to carry.
Near dawn I stood outside the basement door, palm flat against the wood.
I could almost feel her breathing, rapid and uneven, the rhythm of a caged bird.
I thought of my father screaming at a gravestone, calling me a murderer.
I thought of the drunk who never served a day for stealing two lives.
I thought of glass shards sparkling on asphalt like false stars.
Timing decided who lived that night. Timing decided Keira would be my undoing, or my saving grace, depending on where the second hand landed next.
I whispered into the door, so low it was impossible for her-or anyone else-to hear me, “I took you so he couldn’t take you from me.”
Then I turned away before the words could twist into something softer. Something dangerous. Because every second I lingered, the clock kept ticking, and timing—relentless, merciless timing—might have decided to finish what it started.
And I wasn’t ready to know which ending it picked for us yet.
We drive back to the mansion in silence, Keira’s suitcase in the trunk of the SUV.
The afternoon presses against the windows, thick and cold, turning the highway into a dull vein through the woods.
The tires hum; the engine’s growl is steady, patient—unlike the wildfire in my skull.
I keep the speed one notch under reckless, one hand at the wheel and the other resting against the window .
Beside me, Keira folds into herself, chin tucked, arms wrapped tight as if she can hold her ribs together.
Her reflection ghosts in the glass—wide eyes, hollow cheeks, hair a mess of rain-damp curls.
Every few seconds, the light sweeps over her face, lighting the bruise-colored shadows beneath her eyes.
I should say something. Ask if she’s warm enough. Offer water or music or the simplest scrap of comfort. Instead I clamp my jaw shut. Words are cheap currency today, and I’ve already spent too many on guilt.
The trees fling streaks of black across our windshield. Wipers hiss.
Timing, the universe sneers. I’m so deep in the spiral I almost miss her voice.
“I’m not going back to uni.”
Six words. Quiet. But they hit me out of no-where.
My head snaps toward her before instinct slams it back to the road. “What?”
She stares straight ahead, eyes fixed on the road before us. “I’m not going back to uni.”
Pressure builds behind my ribs. “Why?”
She exhales—small, shaky, fogging the window. “I don’t think college is the right place for me.”
As though that is explanation enough. But it will never be. She’s hiding something, that much is clear.
“Tell me why, Keira.”
There’s a long silence before she starts to speak again, her voice soft, measured.
“You have no idea what it’s been like since the story broke about the Aviary… and the rumors about my father—” Her tongue trips over the word father like it’s poison. “Everything changed.”
My grip tightens. Aviary. The trafficking ring. The scandal that burned half the city’s good names to ash. The first domino that toppled into the bullet I fired. I swallow hard.
“That shit’s over,” I remind her.
“Is it? It’ll never be over, Jayson.”
I steal a glance at her, just a flick of my eyes before I focus back on the road.
She says nothing—for so long it starts to ache. The silence stretches, heavy and uncertain. I stay quiet, unsure if speaking will crack something open or just make it worse. So I wait. For her voice. For the moment she decides I deserve to hear it again.
“Friends stopped answering my calls,” she continues, voice flat. “Professors started acting… polite. Too polite. They said they supported me, but I could see it in their eyes: I was a liability. Too much bad press happening. The support was gone.”
She laughs, brittle. “The student paper ran an article calling me ‘the daughter of darkness.’ Nice headline, right? Made for a great viral clip. Comments flooded in before I even finished reading the damn article.”
She goes quiet. I can almost feel the comment thread wrapping around her throat.
“You could transfer,” I offer, though the words sound stupid. “Fresh start somewhere else.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Universities like clean headlines. I’m radioactive, Jayson.”
My name on her lips scrapes sparks across my spine. I clear my throat. “You’re not radioactive.”
“Yes, I am.” Her eyes finally meet mine, and the raw hurt there punches the air from my lungs. “And you know what hurts? I get it. If I were them, I’d stay away from me too.”
Anger prickles under my skin. “They’re cowards.”
“Maybe.” She shrugs one shoulder. “Or maybe they’re just smart. People like my father make enemies. Enemies shoot first, ask questions never. Guilt bleeds by association. ”
Guilt. Association. Yeah, I know something about that.
I nod slowly, processing. Keira’s knuckles twist in her lap, white as mine.
There’s more. I can feel it—secrets coiled tight beneath her skin. But pushing her now will only slam a door I’m still prying open, so I shift focus.
“We’ll figure something out,” I say. It sounds hollow, but I mean it. “You can study from the estate if you want. Tutors, remote classes, whatever you need.”
She doesn’t answer, but her shoulders loosen by a fraction, like the promise at least lands somewhere inside her.
The mansion’s gates appear on the horizon—tall iron bars like sharpened spears cutting through the hazy afternoon sun.
As we approach, they creak open with slow, deliberate menace.
The SUV rumbles over the gravel drive, tires spitting dust, and the house comes into view—massive and still, its windows glaring back the afternoon light like shuttered eyes.
I kill the engine.
Silence settles. The hum of insects fills the thick air, and somewhere in the distance, a bird cries out. The day presses down on us, yet neither of us moves.
“Keira.” I tilt toward her. “I know you’re still keeping things from me. I can practically hear the locks clicking shut in your head. But I… I can’t protect ghosts. If something else is bothering you?—”
Her breath catches. For a flash I glimpse stone-cold fear. Then it’s gone, buried under that quiet, stubborn mask she’s perfected.
“I’ll tell you,” she whispers, “when I’m ready.”
I nod. Slow. “Fine.” I unlatch my seat belt. “But whatever it is—when the time comes—I’ll burn it down first and ask questions second. ”
A tiny sound escapes her—half sob, half laugh. “That’s… terrifyingly comforting.”
“Yeah.” I push open my door. Cool air rushes in, smelling of wet earth and magnolia. “Welcome to how I show I care.”
We unload her suitcase. The thing weighs a ton, like she shoved her entire life—heartbreak, nightmares, all of it—inside and zipped it tight. She trails me up the steps. We reach her room and I set the suitcase inside. She hovers at the threshold.
For a breath we stand there, the distance between us thick with unsaid things. Then she steps in, closes the door, and leaves me in the hall with my ghosts.
I head downstairs, boots thudding against the floorboards with every heavy step. The house is too quiet, the kind of quiet that feels like it’s listening. Watching. Holding its breath.
In the kitchen, Nina’s exactly where I knew she’d be—perched at the far end of the table with her mug in hand, the same way she always is when something big shifts in the air. One knee crossed over the other, sleeves pushed up, hair pinned like she’s preparing for battle.
She glances up as I enter, eyes sharp despite the hour. “Is Keira settled?”
“She’s dangerous,” I say finally. “Not to us. To herself.”
Nina sets her mug down with a soft clink. “Explain.”
“She’s carrying too much,” I mutter. “Shame that isn’t hers. Guilt by association. That university of hers practically shoved her out the door after the Aviary headlines hit. And the people she thought were friends? Gone. Like her name suddenly meant she was contagious.”
Nina nods slowly, eyes distant. “It’s always the ones left standing that bleed the longest.”
I flex my hands, trying to shake the stiffness from my knuckles, from my chest. “She’s got more secrets under her skin than she knows what to do with. ”
Nina watches me for a long beat. “And you think you’re the one that can save her?”
I snort. “I’m not sure save is the right word. But I’m already in it, aren’t I? I dragged her into this house. I took her on the second I spared her life.”
“You didn’t spare her,” she says quietly. “You saved her.”
I glance away. “Same difference.”
“No, Jayson,” she says, rising slowly. “There’s a world of difference. Sparing someone is passive. Saving someone? That’s a choice. A burden. A bond.”
“I don’t know what the hell it is,” I mutter, “but I feel like I’m standing in the middle of something I don’t fully understand.”
Nina walks over and places a hand on my arm—light, but grounding. “You don’t have to understand it. You just have to be ready for the storm when it breaks.”
I nod. Silent.
Thunder rumbles beyond the windows, low and threatening.
“Get some rest,” she says softly, retreating toward the hallway. “She’s not the only one carrying ghosts.”